


Love and Other Things

by DHW



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 09:49:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19226677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DHW/pseuds/DHW
Summary: Six-thousand years is an awfully long time to wait.





	Love and Other Things

Aziraphale was a study in temptation. He had a face that spoke of sensuality, of small pleasures and joys. Full lips, provocative and sweet, a halo of golden curls, and an avidity to his gaze that no amount of holiness could quite disguise. Soft. Yielding. Angelic in a way that begged for ruin.

Crowley knew, if challenged, Aziraphale would claim innocence. Likely deny all knowledge of his allure over beings both occult and mortal as though he were ashamed. Eroticism was something to be throttled. Ignored, not celebrated, and most certainly not acted upon. 

Angels were not suited to demonic desires. They did not dance, he knew. Too prim, too puritanical when it came to matters of sex and rhythm.

Yet, when Crowley slept, he dreamt of Aziraphale stretched out beneath him, languid like a cat, and with a smile that spoke of curiosities and cream. He dreamt of his scent, his softness and hardness in turns, and of the sounds he would make as he came undone inside him. When he woke, an ache deep in his gut, he could only think of how sweet it would be to hear his name cried in exultation from angelic lips. 

Crowley was not without experience. There had been others over the centuries. Mortals. Priests, mostly, and other men of God. Men with medieval ideas about sex and sin; in the beginning, the thrill as he pulled them ever further from Heaven’s light had added a certain piquancy, but as time marched on, the act had become tinged with a desperate sadness and a longing for which there was no substitute. No reality could match the angel who occupied his fantasies, his dreams.

So he slept. A century of dreaming, followed by another of celibacy. And as the 20th century threatened to become the 21st, he found he had quite forgotten the touch of another.

Though not the longing.

*

Aziraphale had bought himself a new bible. One with a misprint in the Gospel of Luke. It had been hideously expensive.

“It’s all relative, my dear,” he had said when questioned. “And if one can’t use the aversion of an apocalypse as an excuse for the occasional extravagance, then whatever is the world coming to?” 

Crowley sat and watched as Aziraphale admired the newest addition to his collection. Lips parted, hair wild about his head, the angel was captivating. Illuminated in what little light filtered through the backroom windows, he seemed to shine golden and bright. His plump fingers hovered over the text, caressing the air as Crowley imagined he would a lover. His breathing was loud, deep, excitement stretching his chest taught against the fabric of his waistcoat. And in the shadows behind him, there was almost the suggestion of wings.

He was ravishing to look at; Crowley felt sick with it. His skin prickled and his heart pounded and his gut twisted. The erotic atmosphere unwittingly cultivated by his companion left him rapt, enchanted and disturbed by turns. 

Thoroughly disgusted with himself, Crowley turned his attention to the open bottle of whisky on the sideboard. If he could not have the angel, he thought, then he could most certainly have the contents of his drinks cabinet. He took a long swig from the bottle. It tasted expensive. 

“Pour me one, too, would you, dear boy,” said Aziraphale, a glass snapping into reality between his perfectly manicured fingers. “This calls for a celebration.”

With a sigh, Crowley did as he was bid, taking another draught from the bottle as he made his way towards the desk and its impatient occupant. Unholy impulses made all the sharper by desire, he made sure to spill a little across Aziraphale’s hand as he poured, earning a _‘tisk’_ of annoyance for his trouble. 

“Laphroaig,” Crowley said as he returned to his seat. “Almost certainly too good to waste.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, muttering something about _‘foul demons’_. He set the glass down untouched, a moue of distaste about his features, his hand rising to his lips and his tongue darting out to catch the whisky that dripped between his fingers. 

In Greece, centuries ago, he had bedded a mortal who had licked wine from his outstretched fingers in much the same way. A serving boy of eighteen with an unsteady hand and a wandering eye. His fingers had tasted like his cock, the boy had told him. Crowley had pressed him hard against the wall then, leaving the boy’s golden curls in disarray and sweat dripping down the valley of his spine. And in the night, when he had stolen away with another soul, he had thought not of the boy, but of an angel who had stood at the gates of Eden. 

The demon said, “We should go out.”

“Oh? Where do you have in mind?”

 _Anywhere,_ thought Crowley. _Anywhere but here._

*

He took the angel to a bakery in Covent Garden where the pastries were as divine as his companion, and they dined together, perched upon velvet covered seats. Coffee, black with two sugars, for him; petits fours and tea for his companion.

The air was thick with conversation and the sweet scent of icing sugar and butter, melted.

“You most certainly know how to tempt one, my dear,” Aziraphale said to Crowley as he selected a peach coloured macaron from his plate. 

Crowley could imagine other praises sung that way. Ones that came from kisses, freely given, and fingers dipped in honey. An image flashed before him: Aziraphale, naked upon cotton bed sheets, lips stained with pomegranate juice, hands beckoning. 

He swallowed and said, “It’s an art.”

“One you have absolutely perfected.” Aziraphale took a bite of his macaron, a look of quiet ecstasy upon his face. The way his lips curved around the treat was obscene. “Oh, heaven.”

“A bit blasphemous for you, isn’t it, angel?”

Aziraphale simply licked his fingers.

Later, when the plates were bare and the glasses empty, they repaired to his flat for wine. _Cheval Blanc_ , 1947, served in chipped china mugs with truly diabolical flare. 

“An excellent year, my sources tell me,” Crowley said, as he eased himself down onto the sofa, fine black leather creaking beneath him. “And I am inclined to agree.”

“How fortunate, then,” Aziraphale replied, his fingers brushing against Crowley’s as he accepted the drink, “that you had another bottle in your possession.”

The touch, unexpected, felt like a lightning bolt. Static crawled across demon skin, leaving hairs stood on edge, and gooseflesh rising in its wake. Crowley gasped. The sound did not go unnoticed. 

“Some would even go so far as to say it’s divine providence,” he said to cover the awkwardness. 

“Consider it a thank you for a truly excellent afternoon.”

Aziraphale was sat upon the chair beside the window. His coat had long been discarded on the sofa-back, and he sat in shirtsleeves, rolled at the elbow. His waistcoat, perhaps a little tighter than it had been the previous summer, was left with both top and bottom buttons undone. He looked in vague disarray, tipsy yet content, the results of all his earthly indulgences on display. 

It was intensley erotic. 

From his place upon the sofa, the vast, glass expanse of the coffee table between them, Crowley watched as the angel relaxed back into his seat, his dignified perch becoming more of a dignified sprawl. He couldn’t tear his eyes away. They seemed fixed upon Aziraphale; upon the curl of his fingers around the mug, upon the bob of his throat as he drank, upon the way his clothes hinted at the form beneath them. 

“Funny, isn’t it, Crowely?” said Aziraphale, catching his gaze. “The little vices we acquire over the years.”

“Like sleep,” Crowley replied, thinking of his bed and of how golden curls would look against white sheets. 

“You know,” said Aziraphale after a moment, “in all the decades I’ve spent visiting you here, the bedroom is the one part of this flat I have never seen.”

Crowley’s mouth was dry. He took a sip of wine. 

“Would you like to?” he asked, quietly.

“Yes,” Aziraphale replied.

*

Aziraphale kissed like a man drowning. All soft limbs and softer lips, searching and clinging until there was nothing left to feel but heat and passion and the wholeness of him. He kissed with abandon, seemingly unconscious of all but the desire to be taken where they lay in a tangle of limbs and cloth.

They had been kissing for hours. Or for something that felt like it. Deep, passionate kisses punctuated by nips and the occasional tug of lapels. Clothing lay scattered about them. 

“Why now?” Crowley asked, tilting his hips forward, his aching cock pressed into Aziraphale’s thigh in invitation. There was an answering hardness against his hip.

“I’m not immune to temptation,” Aziraphale replied. His hand cradled Crowley’s jaw, thumb stroking the hollow of his cheek. “And you are so very tempting.”

“That’s not an answer, angel.”

“No. It isn’t.”

Crowley pushed Aziraphale’s legs apart with his own, nipping at the flesh of his chest and stomach, then soothing the small pains with kisses. His fingertips brushed against the shaft of Aziraphale’s cock. He traced the veins. His palm swept across the head. Trembling, his hand flattened and he moved it along Aziraphale’s sex, smearing sticky wetness across the silken skin, delighting in the gasps his touch elicited.

His hand curled around Aziraphale’s shaft, his grip tightening rhythmically as he began to stroke the hard length of him. He watched as a drop of milky fluid began to bead at the tip. Eyes fixed on Aziraphale’s, he sucked upon the pad of his thumb before drawing it wetly across the head of the angel’s cock. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, the fingertips of his free hand digging into the soft skin of Aziraphale’s inner thigh. 

Aziraphale’s breath hitched, his eyes open wide, tongue darting out to lick at his parted lips. 

“As are you, my dear,” Aziraphale replied. 

He shifted position. Aziraphale’s cock twitched in his fist as he bent forward to press feverish kisses upon the skin of his inner thighs and the soft little crease where his stomach and hips met. Hand moving almost of its own accord, he nuzzled at the golden curls gathered at the base of his shaft, reveling in the ragged moan it drew from Aziraphale’s lips. 

Lust coursed through Crowley’s veins. He felt wild with it. Wild with a desire to conquer, to bring Aziraphale to his knees, begging for mercy. Begging for a reprieve from the exquisite torture his mouth would visit upon him. 

Slowly, Crowley drew back until his mouth was little more than a hair’s breadth away from the very tip of Aziraphale’s cock. A sly grin tugged at the edge of his lips.

“Do you know how long I have wanted you like this, angel?” Crowley asked, the pad of his thumb gently circling the sensitive underside of Aziraphale’s cock. “You on your back, looking for all the world like the cat who got the cream.”

“How long?” he groaned. 

“Millenia.” 

A low groan filled the air as Crowley’s lips latched around the head of Aziraphale’s cock, drawing him into the hot, wet cavern of his mouth. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Aziraphale’s stomach muscles tense with pleasure. A wave of heat rolled over him at the sight, and he let his head lower, tongue swirling around his shaft as he took as much of him as he could. 

He tasted different from the mortal men; sweet, like victory, cut with an undercurrent of bitterness he felt deep in the back of his throat. There was the hint of something _other_ , too. Something that tugged at his soul like desert wind through outstretched wings. 

Crowley hollowed his cheeks, drawing a loud moan from Aziraphale as the pressure around his cock increased. Slowly, he drew back, releasing him from his mouth inch by beautiful inch, leaving his skin damp and glistening. He felt himself grow harder at the sight of Aziraphale so thoroughly debauched, brow beaded with sweat and chest heaving, begging silently for more. Desperate to oblige, he curled his fingers around him, the touch feather-light, and stroked. 

“I fear this is all getting rather dreadfully one sided,” Aziraphale panted. “It seems almost criminally unfair.”

“And what are you going to do about it?”

Aziraphale grasped his wrist, stilling the motion of his hand. 

“Straddle me,” he replied.

*

The night was cool and dark. Rain pattered softly upon the skylight, the hum of London traffic ever constant below. Light, soft and golden, radiated out from the lamps that stood upon the nightstand.

They had been fucking for hours. Or maybe only minutes. To Crowley, it felt like infinity, the passage of time marked only by the rhythmic shifting of hips and the creak of bedsprings. 

His eyes were fixed upon Aziraphale. He watched the blush that chased across the angel’s chest and cheeks, fire blooming low in his belly; the way the muscles of his neck corded with effort as he moved beneath him; the flicker of emotion, pleasure and astonishment in turns, as it played across his face. 

Aziraphale’s fingers caressed his buttocks, playing over the roundness of them and darting, briefly, into the crease between the halves. The angel’s movements were targeted, precise. 

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’d done this before,” gasped Crowley with more than a little jealousy. 

“Quiet now, my dear,” said Aziraphale, and kissed him again as he pressed his spit-slicked cock deeper inside him. 

Crowley felt himself clench tightly around Aziraphale, twitching involuntarily. Drawing a shaky breath, he shifted position and began to move. Slowly at first. Then increasing in speed as they found each other’s rhythm once more. Aziraphale grasped his hips, pulling him forward, changing the angle. Pleasure knifed through him with each thrust. His skin felt as though it were on fire. His cock ached where it brushed against the curve of Aziraphale’s stomach. He was so close to the edge that it hurt. 

“Angel, I’m going to - I - I’m going -”

“Not yet,” Aziraphale moaned, cutting him off, his nails digging into the sparse flesh of Crowley’s hips. “Please, not yet.”

Crowley watched as Aziraphale’s muscles tensed. His next thrust was harder than the last. His eyes were wild and pleading. 

“You keep doing that and I don’t think I’ll be able to help it.”

Crowley could feel the beginnings of orgasm blooming low and hot in his belly. A flick of his hips drew Aziraphale deeper still. Every muscle tensed in anticipation. His breath came quick and sharp. His fingers pulled Aziraphale’s trembling hands from his hips, pressing them into the bed beside the angel’s head, pinning him in place as he rode him. 

“Please,” Aziraphale begged, teetering upon the brink himself, his jaw tight and his eyes locked upon Crowley’s. “Please. Just a little longer.”

But he couldn't wait. Couldn't restrain the culmination of six thousand years of watching and wanting. 

Of loving. 

“I can’t,” he said, and with a howl, Crowley came, painting streaks across Aziraphale’s belly. 

Beneath him, Aziraphale spasmed, and they collapsed in a heap upon the bed, hot and sticky and content.


End file.
